If The Fates Allow
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: "It doesn't seem right, is all. A mission on Christmas."


Title: If the Fates Allow (And Even if They Don't)

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: For blackdog_lz who understands the power of good whump and never ceases to impress me with her awesome English as a second language skills :) I also owe her quite a bit for helping me get a hold of the movie Phoenix Blue and fueling my ongoing James Murray obsession. Beta provided by geminigrl11.

Summary: "It doesn't seem right, is all. A mission on Christmas."

-o-

Rick loves Christmas. He loves the decorations and the music. He loves shopping for gifts and making eggnog. He watches Christmas specials on TV and takes the time to wrap all his presents with bows and ribbons, just for effect.

When his first December at the Agency rolls around, he can't help but put out the little snow globe his mother gave him last year. There are four little figures inside and two are ice skating while another builds a snowman. The last is decorating a tree in the scene. When Rick winds it, the melody that plays is "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

Billy sings along and Michael endures it with a quizzical lift of his brow. Casey scowls and says, "That offends my personal belief system."

"Oh?" Rick asks. "You don't celebrate Christmas?"

Casey glares. "No, I don't celebrate stupidity," he snaps. "So if you play it again, I make no promises as to the nature of my actions."

-o-

Rick shops for his family, buying his mother a sweater he thinks she'll like while picking up a new video game for his brother. He buys a necklace for Adele and for some reason, the package of multi-colored dress socks is a must for Billy.

With something for Billy, he figures the latest bestseller will do for Michael, but he's stumped when it comes to Casey. He finally settles on new pocketknife, decked out with all the stops, because he'd lost his last one on their mission to Denmark.

Besides, even if Christmas won't make Casey smile, Rick figures weaponry might.

-o-

For the most part, the mission sounds fine.

"We'll land in Canada, posing as oil prospectors for a large firm," Michael explains. "That should give us ample access to the area where the drug runners seem to be setting up camp."

"And the reason our not-so-friendly drug runners are setting up shop in a frozen and remote wasteland?" Billy interjects.

"They're drug smugglers," Casey suggests. "They're not known for their overabundance of brain cells."

"Ah, yes," Billy says, shrugging. "The cold might help preserve what they have left a bit better."

"That and there's little regulation on the airfields that far north," Michael says. "They can ship easily to anywhere in the world with as little government meddling as possible. We've just gotten intel on a route that they've set up to Minneapolis. Several kids have turned up dead from the latest shipment."

"And I suppose that the cash being gained from this little operation isn't being used to fund the best enterprises," Casey surmises.

Michael is duly grim. "They've been making connections with several terrorist groups in the Middle East," he confirms.

"It all gets back to terrorism, doesn't it," Billy says, shaking his head in disgust. "Dangerous and rather uncreative."

"And still in need of being shut down," Michael says. "Fortunately, it should be a fairly in and out job."

Billy and Casey nod; Rick shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Of course, Michael notices. "Something wrong, Martinez?" he asks.

Rick frowns and tries to hide what he's sure is petulant trepidation. There is something wrong-something very wrong-but he's not quite sure how to say it without sounding like he's five years old.

Casey sighs in melodramatic exasperation.

Billy inches forward. "You're not unnerved by Canadian drug smugglers, are you?"

Rick shakes his head. "No, no," he says quickly, because that's not it. "It's just-" He hesitates, uncertain.

They're all watching him, expectant. "Yes?" Michael prompts.

Rick can't keep it in any longer. "But it's on Christmas," he says finally, hoping that he doesn't sound as wistful and whiny as he thinks he might.

Michael stares at him. Billy chuckles sympathetically. Casey rolls his eyes as they all get back to work.

"It is," Rick says, as much as a protest as an explanation. "It doesn't seem right, is all. A mission on Christmas."

"The spy world does not live by any calendar," Billy tells him in consolation.

"We have to do what we have to do," Michael says. "If we miss this shipment, we may miss them altogether."

"Besides," Casey tells him. "Christmas is a day oversaturated with falsified joy stemming from a devious and frightening form of consumerism. It's a blight on the modern world. We're better off with criminals."

And that's that, even if Rick doesn't want it to be.

-o-

Their flight to Canada is on December 23. Before he leaves, Rick apologizes to his mother, tells her that he can't make it. There's this new client who can only meet him on Christmas Eve.

She is positively mournful, not even mollified when Rick promises he'll be back for New Years.

On the plane, Rick feels pretty mournful himself. He watches the ground and wonders about all the people decorating their homes, baking cookies, and going Christmas shopping.

"You know," Billy says, leaning in next to him. "It won't be so bad."

Rick stares at him.

Billy shrugs. "Christmas is more of a state of mind than any actual day," he says. "It's about love and charity, being with those you love."

"Mindless moppets craving whatever the television tells them," Casey interjects from the row behind them.

"It's a season of giving," Billy says. "And you're off to give your country the greatest gift you possibly could."

"And you don't even have to wear a ridiculous red suit or espouse poor eating habits to do it," Casey says contentedly.

"We could even sing carols, if it makes you feel better," Billy offers.

"If anyone as much attempts to sing, I will kill them personally," Casey warns.

"That's not exactly in the Christmas spirit," Michael advises Casey from the seat next to him.

"I'll make it quick, then," Casey amends. "In the spirit of Christmas, I won't make any of you suffer for your crimes like you should."

And Rick mourns for his Christmas even more.

-o-

Usually, when Michael says something will be in and out, Rick knows to take his words with a grain of salt.

Turns out, Rick should have taken more than a grain this time.

-o-

It starts with someone in the quiet terminal asking what Rick's doing for Christmas.

Somehow, while Rick is coming up with a suitable lie about oil prospecting and how business doesn't take holidays, the smugglers get nervous and there's yelling in the hangar and then the sound of gunfire.

And when it ends with an explosion, Rick wonders when it became the Fourth of July.

-o-

"What happened?" Rick yells. He's pinned down behind a service desk. The man who asked him about Christmas is dead, having bled out from a series of gunshot wounds, body splayed in the waiting area. There are other bodies-the few sparse passengers and service personnel.

Billy presses next to him, firing off a few rounds before ducking back down. "Apparently, they are not open to outsiders," he explains over the melee.

Michael rolls in next to them, shooting a round before saying, "And apparently, they've heard chatter about a new outlet from Saskatchewan trying to move business up north."

Casey barely pauses as he shoots. "And apparently, we look like drug runners," he says.

Rick is feeling too overwhelmed to even attempt to defend himself in the fray. "They think we're competition?"

Billy bobs up and fires before coming back down. "I'd take it as a compliment," he says.

Michael shrugs. "Would you rather tell them we're CIA?"

Rick's not sure; honestly, he would just rather not be in a firefight on the day before Christmas.

"Either way," Casey says, coming down and looking at them seriously. "We're pretty much screwed."

Rick swallows hard, shaking his head. "Why?"

"Because I'm out of ammo," Casey says.

Michael has just fired two more rounds. "So am I," he says.

Billy smiles apologetically. "And to think, I asked Santa for a Kindle this year," he says remorsefully. When Casey gives him a look, Billy shrugs. "They're on sale."

Rick frowns, shaking his head, trying to find his resolution. "I've got a clip left," he says.

Casey looks impressed. "Well," he says. "That's the best present I could ask for."

-o-

It's ammo, but it's not much, and even with Michael's planning, Casey's hand to hand, and Billy's marksmanship, Rick still knows they're pretty much screwed.

It takes exactly four bullets to get them out into the hangar. When they're there, they need one more to take out the pilot and hide in the plane.

That's when Rick realizes why the smugglers are so trigger-happy. "It's meth," he says, looking into the cargo area. "And a lot of it."

His team falls in behind him, ducking behind whatever they can to take cover.

Michael whistles.

Casey tilts his head. "Someone was looking to spread some good cheer," he says.

"We've never caught wind of a shipment this size," Michael says with a frown.

Billy grimaces. "Someone's making the naughty list, that's for sure."

-o-

It's Christmas Eve and Rick is in a ransacked Canadian airport in the Northwest Territories. Several innocent people are dead and they're taking fire from angry drug runners who have just stepped up their product line to be more deadly and more profitable than ever before.

More than that, they've killed several suspects and are currently holed up in their plane. The plane has no fuel and they're down to one bullet.

Oh, and the rest of the smugglers are right outside, waiting for them to come out so they can riddle them with holes.

He thinks of his family, back home. They're probably finishing dinner, getting ready for church. The tree is lit and the presents are waiting. His mother is humming "Joy to the World."

And Rick's probably going to die. Possibly get arrested, but most likely going to die.

All in all, Rick's had better Christmases.

-o-

"So I'm open to ideas," Michael says.

"We're screwed," is all Rick can think of.

"We could charge them," Casey suggests, ignoring Rick's fatalism. "We may take a few bullets but the sheer surprise of it might let us take some of them down with us."

"That seems a bit superfluous, if you ask me," Billy says.

"And do you have any better ideas?" Casey grouses.

"Well, anything that doesn't involve certain death is preferable," Billy shoots back.

Michael rolls his eyes.

Rick wonders if his mom got him a sweater for Christmas. Which is okay with him. Rick likes sweaters, not quite as much as drug runners like meth, but-

"They're on the naughty list," Rick blurts suddenly.

His teammates frown at him. "Such a pity," Billy muses. "The stress of the holidays has gotten to him."

Rick shakes his head, adamant now. "No, think about it," he says. "They're on the naughty list. What do people get on the naughty list?"

"A lump of coal," Casey says. "But I'm not sure what idle superstition has to do with anything."

Michael nods, though, starting to smile. "They get a lump of coal instead of what they want."

"So we don't let these guys get what they want," Rick concludes.

Realization dawns for Billy and Casey and they all look back at the large stash of drugs behind them.

-o-

As far as plans go, Rick is certain that Michael has had better.

"We make a run for it, turn back before we're out of range and aim for the fuel barrels," Michael explains, as though this is all perfectly reasonable.

He's failing to mention the fact that they've only got one bullet, they're surrounded by armed gunmen, and that any shot worth taking will likely cause them to get caught in the explosion.

"I like it," Casey says. "Simple, to the point."

"Fairly hard to screw up," Billy agrees.

Rick blinks at them. "You do know that we're probably going to blow ourselves up, right?"

They all look at him. Billy shakes his head. "Now is not the time to lose faith, Martinez," he admonishes.

Rick just stares back. "But. I'm serious."

"So are we," Michael says. "But if we stay here, we're going to get shot to death and they'll still get to go about their business."

Casey cocks his head. "Besides, it was your idea."

As if that somehow makes suicide a more palatable Christmas wish.

Still, they're right. The mission comes first. He's already in Canada on Christmas Eve and there's no turning back. "Okay," he says. "One lump of coal, coming up."

-o-

Rick doesn't get to see the expression on their faces; he doesn't get to see the lump of coal, either.

They make a quick run, Casey and Billy up ahead providing a distraction while they charge the line of gunmen. Michael is flanking Rick while he gets some distance and turns to take the shot.

One shot, and the barrels will go up and take the plane and all the drugs with them.

And probably everything else in the vicinity.

There's yelling and gunfire. Rick clears his mind, pushes it all away. He's in his own universe, like he's trapped in a snow globe while the real world bustles crazily without him.

Then, he fires.

The bullet moves in slow motion and Michael is dragging him by his collar and he's tripping and falling before the fire sparks.

He thinks of his mother, playing Christmas music in the car, singing to "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire."

As the flames singe him and he goes flying, Rick thinks he understands the song in a whole new way.

Any time, anywhere, Rick thinks. Merry Christmas.

And that's all there is.

-o-

When he was little, Rick could hardly sleep on Christmas Eve. He stayed obediently tucked in his bed, afraid to scare Santa away by venturing out, but he passed the hours staring at the ceiling and thinking about what he'd asked for. And he was always up at 6 AM, running out of his room, waking the entire house to behold the wonder of the day.

It's been years since Rick got up early, and he still remembers the first year he slept in, woken by his niece, jumping on his bed. "He came! He came! Uncle Rick, he came!"

This year, though, he wakes to the feeling of a warm hand pressed against his face and someone saying, "Martinez. _Martinez._"

The tone of the voice falls somewhere between an order and a request, and Rick can deny neither as he opens his eyes.

What he sees first is Michael, stooped over him. There's moonlight behind him and his face is bruised and dirty. There's a trail of blood leaking from a gash on his cheek and when Rick's eyes focus, Michael just looks relieved.

"What happened?" Rick asks.

Michael sits back a little, giving him a wry smile. "Apparently our friends didn't appreciate getting a lump of coal," he says. "They decided to return the favor by taking us on a little trip."

Rick blinks and sits up a little, wary of the way his vision narrows and his head pounds. Still, it's enough to see that they're not at the hangar anymore; in fact, they seem to be nowhere near the remote village that had served as their makeshift home base.

Given the trees behind them and the vast blanket of snow before them, they seem to be in the middle of nowhere.

"Too bad they didn't spring for a round trip ticket," Casey joins in. He looks a little better than Michael, but he's cradling his arm to his chest. He's sitting on the ground, not far from Rick.

Next to Casey, Billy seems to be sitting up with difficulty. The side of his head is caked with blood, presumably from a gouge just above his ear. Even in the dark, Rick can see the blood on his pant leg as he twists his lips into a smile. "Bloody cheapskates," he mutters. "I just hate it when people can't get into the appropriate holiday spirit."

-o-

The facts are pretty simple at this point.

The explosion did its job; the entire plane was destroyed and most of the hangar was decimated. A good portion of the men were taken down by the force, although several on the outside escaped.

At least, this is what Casey tells them. He's the only one who managed to stay conscious for any of the aftermath. Michael and Rick were hurled through the air and unconscious on impact – and had the contusions to show for it – and Billy had been winged by a bullet before getting knocked out by flying debris.

Casey had gotten them all outside, even with his busted arm, but the exertion and his injury had made him incapable of defending himself when the rest of the smugglers surrounded him and knocked him cold.

Then, apparently, they drove them to this remote location and dumped them without any supplies. Not even their coats.

It's sort of a bleak picture, and Rick can't help but feel forlorn.

"There is a bright side," Casey says.

Rick perks up, hopeful.

Casey shrugs. "They looked more than a little pissed when they saw their lump of coal."

Rick is surprised when that is actually some consolation.

-o-

The consolation is short-lived when they take stock of the situation.

In terms of physical well-being, Casey seems to have escaped with the least amount of damage. His scrapes are entirely superficial and the break to his arm is clean. He's in some pain but he hardly shows it. They fashion him a sling out of an undershirt, and he seems to be ready for whatever awaits them next.

Michael is somewhat worse for wear; he was more beat up in the explosion, and though he's up and planning, his eyes are slightly glazed in the night. He's also holding himself more carefully than normal, probably to protect his ribs. If they're bruised or broken, Michael won't tell, but it's clear that they're bothering him.

Billy seems to be the worst off, thanks to his gunshot wound. It was in and out through the fleshy part of his thigh, which is the good news, but he's still lost more blood than the rest of them and that's only making the risk from his obvious concussion even worse.

In all of this, Rick's hardly cognizant of his own injuries. It's not until Casey touches the side of his head that he realizes he's got an inch long gash on his forehead, which explains his fuzzy vision and throbbing headache. Rick gasps in pain when he tries to put any kind of pressure on his wrist, but after a quick look, Casey says he's managed to avoid breaking it.

"It doesn't really matter anyway," Casey says flatly.

Rick is hard pressed to know why not.

Casey looks exasperated. Before he can say something scathing, Michael seems to take pity on him. "Because we're in the middle of the Canadian arctic, miles from civilization. The temperatures get well below zero and we don't even have any proper winter gear with us," he explains.

Rick hears the words, but doesn't understand.

Billy sighs. "Meaning we'll freeze to death before any of us have to worry about the fallout from our wounds."

-o-

Rick sort of feels like panicking.

Because his head hurts and he's cold. He's really cold.

And it's Christmas and he's going to die.

There's a carol about everything but there's not a carol about that, and he sort of thinks there should be before he remembers that his team is still there.

"From the position of the moon, I'd say we're well south of our previous location," Casey is explaining.

"That means we're closer to the next major city," Michael concludes.

"We could always try to follow the tire tracks," Billy says. "Better than sitting here and dying, anyhow."

"What supplies do we have?" Michael prompted.

Rick frowns, digging through his pocket. His fingers are already so cold, they hurt, but he can still feel the seams as he comes up with nothing.

Michael has more success. "All I have is this," he says, producing a cigarette lighter.

"I didn't know you smoked," Rick says, pulling his hands out and rubbing them together.

In the cold, Michael's breath is visible as he smirks. "I don't," he says. "But I have found fire to be quite helpful in unexpected circumstances."

"It saved the cavemen from annihilation," Casey says. "It may do the same for us." He pauses, snaking his hand up his pant leg and grunting for a moment. Rick is vaguely disturbed until he pulls his hand back out, a knife in hand. "And this might help."

Michael grins in approval.

"That's all well and good, gents," Billy says. He tilts his head mischievously. "But I have something better."

He pulls out a pen and Rick is duly disappointed. "I can't even feel my fingers well enough to write," Rick laments.

"True," Billy says. "But this pen will write our letter to Santa for us."

Rick frowns.

Michael grins. "You still bring an emergency beacon."

Billy shrugs, clicking a button on the side. "After that SNAFU in Madagascar last year, I've found it to be a smart idea."

Casey inclines his head. "Well," he says. "I can think of a few other things I'd like for Christmas, but this is a start."

-o-

They have a lighter, which Michael points out is good for starting fires. Fire is essential for not freezing to death.

They have a knife, which is helpful for cutting branches away in order to find dry wood to start said fires.

And they have an emergency beacon, which, since activation, will have help to them within four to six hours, depending on how remote their location actually is. The fact that this is Canada will mean there are more friendlies in the area that can be deployed, which is the good news.

The bad news, though, is pretty bad. They all have their suit jackets and shoes, but that's about it. Without coats, hats, and gloves, their extremities are at risk. Though, with the night falling deeper, frostbite is probably the least of their concerns since hypothermia is likely to do them in a rather expeditious fashion.

In some ways, it seems like an appropriate way to die for Christmas.

Rick's team does not seem willing to talk about that, though.

"We should walk," Billy says. "We have a trail to follow so it's not like we'd be blind."

"It would get us closer to any kind of help," Casey says. "And we should keep the blood circulating to best prevent frostbite."

Michael shakes his head. "We'd never get very far, not with our injuries," he says. "Billy, you can't even support weight on your leg."

"I'm just resting it for its proper moment," Billy counters.

Michael is not convinced. "We'd make it one hour, tops and then we'd be too drained to set up any kind of encampment," he says. "No, we stay here, build a fire and huddle close. With a fire and body heat, we should be able to last long enough."

Michael says it like it's completely logical. Casey and Billy seem to doubt him, but Rick thinks they're all missing the point.

Which is that it's Christmas Eve and Rick can't feel his toes and somewhere in the world, his family is sitting around the tree, drinking egg nog and eating cookies, while the night dwindles away.

While normal people are celebrating, they're picking a way to die.

Funny, but Rick never put _slow and inevitable death _on his wish list. Though, in retrospect, _painless demise_would have been a good thing to throw on, just in case.

-o-

It would be easy to despair, given the circumstances. Rick's pretty sure that anyone else would.

But anyone else isn't a part of the ODS. His teammates are not just insufferable, they're borderline delusional, because despite their desperate situation, they're all studiously applying themselves to eek out some form of survival.

This starts with making mittens and hats.

It's Casey idea, naturally, and Rick would be impressed were he not quite so cold.

The process involves Casey, Rick, and Billy removing their undershirts and ripping them into strips. Two strips are to be wrapped around their hands; the third, on their head. Each of them contributes an extra strip to Michael, who has already sacrificed most of his for Casey's sling. Then they huddle, all of them squeezed as tightly together as they can manage.

"Our core will naturally divert all energy inward," Casey explains. "So we can afford the meager layer for the more exposed parts of our body."

Rick frowns, not because he disagrees, but because it hard to undress when his entire body feels sluggish and icy and being half-dressed even momentarily seems counterintuitive to him.

"I have always been quite fond of my toes," Billy chimes in and he manages to sound jovial, even though his voice is pinched. Whether it's the pain or the cold, Rick's not sure.

"We can all sacrifice our pinky toes, but much beyond that and we'd be desk bound," Michael agrees.

This is idle chitchat; it should maybe be expected, but Rick can't quite follow it. The concussion is still throbbing and the cold seems to be reaching deep into him now, even as he fumbles to button his shirt back up and bundle the suit jacket as tight as he can.

Trembling, he shakes his head. "I don't understand."

They look at him. "Toes are important for our balance," Casey tries to explain.

Rick frowns and shakes his head. "No, I mean, I don't understand how we're here."

This elicits a worried exchange of looks and Rick realizes that they think he's losing it.

He sighs, brow furrowed. "I mean, why didn't they just kill us?" he asks. "Why go through the bother of stranding us in the first place?"

It's a legitimate question and Rick thinks if he wasn't so cold, he would have given voice to it a lot sooner.

His teammates look at him with that look of theirs. The one that says _Rick's still the new guy _and _who dares speak common sense in our presence? _Normally, it has a bit more condescension, especially from Casey, but the effect is muted by the stark redness in their cheeks and the puffs of air that come out from their mouths.

This time, Rick doesn't back down, though. Really, it's because his neck is too cold to move and his ears are stinging with the weather, but if they mistake it as persistence, then that's okay with him.

Michael sighs first, breaking the silence. He casts a longsuffering glance at Casey, who purses his lips and shakes his head.  
>"Because they had just enough brain cells left to figure out that they'd pegged us wrong," Casey explains. "After I pulled you all out, they put together the facts, realized we didn't have any of the characteristics of drug smugglers and assumed we were with some kind of law enforcement."<p>

"I always did fancy being a Mountie," Billy chimes in uselessly as he wraps one of his hands.

Casey shakes his head in mild exasperation. "At that point, they panicked. We'd destroyed their shipment, had them made, and they didn't know what to do."

"Plus, if they don't pull the trigger, then they might not get a blood trail that leads straight to them," he says.

"And really, if you think about it, most of our injuries are actually self-inflicted," Billy adds unhelpfully.

Casey scowls. "Yes, but leaving us without coats in the middle of nowhere certainly shows forethought and intent."

"But only if they can link us," Michael says.

"And only if they find our bodies in a timely fashion," Billy says.

Rick frowns; they're getting off the point. "So you guys aren't seeing this as a problem?" he asks, feeling desperate about things now. Because it's almost Christmas and he's going to die, and without even finishing the mission.

"It's only a problem if we succumb to our human weaknesses," Casey says.

"Help's on the way," Michael reminds him.

"And I think we should be thanking our criminal friends," Billy says. "Dropping us out here, while somewhat hard up on creativity, certainly does give us a sporting chance at survival."

Sitting there, in the freezing cold with a cloth wrapped around his head, Rick somehow doubts that.

-o-

It's funny, because Rick's never been a doubter. In fact, if anything, he's been too eager to believe. He doesn't think he's naïve, but he's persistently hopeful about certain things. Like the power of civil servants and Santa Claus.

Even with this predisposition, he's finding it difficult to believe in their rescue. After all, he knows his teammates. He knows they are brave and strong, cunning and able. He knows they often defy the odds and make the impossible a reality.

Consequently, he also knows they're patent liars, each and every one.

So when they say they're going to be fine, Rick can't help it if he's skeptical.

Or if he thinks they're completely full of crap.

But the fact is, it's cold – really cold – and Rick's head hurts, and if he's going to die, it's probably better to not spend the last few, miserable hours of his life picking fights with his teammates. He's pretty sure that would only make his headache worse anyway.

So, for now, doubts or not, it's really in his best interest to play along, both for his sanity and on the off chance that his team's audacious assumptions may actually come to fruition and rescue does find them before they're popsicles.

Therefore, when Casey tells him to follow, Rick gets on his numb legs and trudges through the drifts after him.

Casey leads him to the tree line. It's not a far walk, but it seems like miles to Rick. His feet feel like blocks of ice, making him clumsy as he crunches into the snow. The movement of his pants against his leg is like prickling fire, and the renewed burst of circulation makes everything ache with a fresh intensity.

If Casey is similarly affected, he's not showing it as he reaches up toward one of the branches and studies it. He slips a few fingers through the fabric on his hands, feeling it with a critical look.

"It's an icy snow," he says. "That will help it burn, but we may have to slice away the top layer of bark to make it work."

Rick is listening, but he's slow to process this.

Casey looks at him, eyebrows raised. "I want you to snap off as many branches as you can," he says. "Focus on larger ones – the biggest ones you can break off without hurting yourself."

Rick nods; this shouldn't be too hard. "And what will you do?"

Holding up his knife, Casey tilts his head. "I'll turn our branches into prime kindling," he says.

Rick nods again, swallowing and looking up at the branches. His eyes drift to the dark sky, speckled with stars and the moon. He sees his breath puff out, almost crystallizing before his eyes and for a second, he can feel the snap of cold air in his lungs as he breathes in.

"Do you think this will really work?" he asks, turning his eyes back to Casey. "Are we actually going to get a fire started in this weather?"

Rick's voice sounds young, even to him.

Casey sighs. He looks old, face dark in the night, the shadows elongated by the moonlight. "Even if we can't," he says, "keeping focused and moving is paramount to success."

This is true, and Rick knows it.

"Besides," Casey says, with a simple shrug, "if it doesn't work, trust me, you won't be awake long enough to worry about it."

Somehow, Rick doesn't find this very comforting.

-o-

When Casey finally says he can stop, Rick's limbs feel heavy, as lifeless as the logs he's snapped off the lower boughs. He doesn't know it until he looks down, but his exposed fingertips are cut and red and it takes the last of his coordination to finagle them back under the thin cover of torn shirt.

Michael has helped move Billy toward the tree line, digging a small ditch for all of them to sit in. Billy's already positioned against the edge, face chapped in the cold as he lounges awkwardly, leg positioned in front of him.

Michael is still digging out the far end of the entrenchment, huffing clouds of air as he works. Even though he's still moving and working, he's slower and stiffer than usual. Part of that is the cold, Rick is sure, but he can't be sure how much is because of his ribs.

Casey has hunkered down, kneeling in the snow while he gathers the newly stripped kindling. His face is strained with a mix of concentration and pain, but his fingers are surprisingly nimble as he arranges the wood for a fire even as he guards his broken arm close to his body.

For his part, Rick trudges down, making the uneasy step down into the ditch. It's not a very big space, which is clearly the point, and he gingerly slides himself down next to Billy. When he's down, he breathes long and steady, blinking his eyes to clear away the freeze that seems to be settling into his consciousness.

Seemingly content, Michael turns and slides up on the other side of Billy. They're all pressed close but not quite touching; still, Rick can't deny that the warmth of Billy's body next to his is a refreshing break from the persistent cold.

"I always did fancy camping as a lad," Billy muses.

"I tried to convince Fay to celebrate our first anniversary in a tent," Michael recalls.

Billy nods in commiseration. "Perhaps one of the reasons you're divorced, eh?"

Michael shrugs. "Not one of my smarter ideas."

"I always thought it would be fun to go ice fishing in Alaska," Rick says.

Billy looks at him. "And now?"

Rick laughs haltingly. "Not one of my smarter ideas, either."

"You're both idiots," Casey says, settling back on his heels. In front of him, the woodpile is well constructed, carefully lined with layers and with extra branches just to the side. "Now should we see if this works?"

No one says anything; Rick figures they're all afraid as he is to jinx it.

Pressing his lips together, Casey pulls the lighter out of his pocket with some effort. His hands are shaking just slightly with the cold as he holds it down to the kindling.

Rick doesn't breathe – doesn't dare breathe – as Casey flicks the lighter and the small flame comes to life. It looks out of place in the stark wilderness and it flickers as Casey lowers it until it licks against the branches.

For a long moment, the flame doesn't catch, and Rick fears the worst. But then, the kindling sparks and the flame expands with a crackle in the eerie stillness.

Casey sits back again, and they all watch as the flames spread, soon consuming the entirety of the pile.

They all watch in silence before Billy says, "So, chestnuts, anyone?"

-o-

There are no chestnuts. There's not much of anything, actually. It's just the four of them, huddled together in their dugout while the flames cackled nearby.

They talk a little bit – mostly about the mission, about what went wrong. Billy concludes that there's simply no accounting for luck anymore, good or bad, and Casey blames a quasi-socialist leadership letting criminals pick up on too much chatter.

Michael says it doesn't matter; the shipment is going nowhere and they're going to have to relocate. The disruption of the trade route was the ODS' primary mission, and with the destruction back at the hangar, the local RCMP will have to do some investigation, likely unraveling a bit more of the ring as a result.

Rick doesn't say much – there's not much to say, really – and after a while, he tugs his sleeve up with his mitten-clad hand and looks at his watch.

"Hey," he says out of nowhere. "It's ten past midnight."

His announcement breaks their conversation, settling in the stillness.

Rick drops his hand and breathes out, looking around. "So," he says. "This is Christmas."

-o-

After an hour, things are getting sluggish. They all scoot and burrow in alternating turns, inching ever closer together as Casey continues to feed the spare wood to the fire. Rick can't feel his feet or his hands anymore, and his legs and arms feel like pins and needles. His heart seems to ache in his chest and his lungs feel like blocks of ice. Michael keeps the conversation going doggedly, even though Rick is certain their voices are all starting to slur and the edges of his vision are blurry.

"Going on a mission during Christmas was supposed to be _better _than being stuck Stateside," Casey grouses.

"Eh, come now," Billy cajoles. "It could be worse."

"What," Rick asks, not sure if he's serious or joking, "we could be surrounded by wild dogs?"

Casey snorts at that; Michael looks vaguely confused.

"This is true," Billy says. "But I was going to say, we may be stranded and we may be hurt and we may be damned cold, but at least it isn't snowing, as it is so prone to in this area."

It's probably sheer coincidence, but it doesn't seem like it to Rick when the first flakes start to fall no more than a moment later. At first, a few wayward ones; then, bigger and bigger until one lands on Rick's nose and refuses to melt.

Casey lifted his eyebrows. "You were saying?"

For once, Billy has no reply.

-o-

Despite the continuous ticking of his watch, Rick measures time now by snow accumulation. It's falling in earnest now, and it's all Casey can do to keep their fire from going out. He digs back into the pit, trying to create a ledge to block it from the elements. So far, it's working, but it's just a matter of time until the wetness squelches what little hope they have.

They're pressed into each other now, all thoughts of personal boundaries and inhibition gone. It's primal instinct as they lean closer together, drawing what little heat they have and pooling it together.

"You know," Rick says. "I still look forward to Christmas."

"Well, you could have fooled us," Casey says blandly.

Rick turns to look at him.

Billy shrugs. "You have been rather obvious about it," he says.

"The snow globe on your desk is a giveaway," Michael reminds him.

"Oh," Rick says, remembering the snow globe. It's a little vague to him, but he seems to remember the four figures, all enjoying the winter in their perfect little bubble. "Right."

"Not that it's a bad thing," Billy offers. "I myself find the holidays to be quite enjoyable."

"What, you decorate your crappy motel room and drink egg nog?" Casey asks pointedly.

The obvious recrimination doesn't faze Billy. "I'll admit, the celebrations are somewhat less than spectacular for me these days, but back home, in Scotland, they were always a grand affair."

Rick listens to this with new interest, not just because he needs the conversation to stay coherent but because though Billy is prone to telling stories, he hardly ever mentions Scotland. Letting his head loll back on the snow, he looks at Billy in genuine curiosity. "Yeah?"

Billy nods, quite serious. "My mum started decorating right after Halloween, always with fresh eves about the house," he says, and his look is far off, like he can see it. "When we finally got the tree up in December, we put a whole host of baubles on it, doing up the outside of the house with holly wreaths just for effect. My mum, she was a perfectionist in this."

Rick listens, and looks, and he thinks maybe he can see it too.

Billy's voice continues, lilting with the crackling fire. "Then," he says, "on Christmas Eve we get everything done up. Stockings outside for easy access and a fire burning to keep any elves or other ill-intruders at bay. And we are sure to cater to the big man himself, and I'm quite certain he favors Scots because we don't settle for something so provincial as milk and cookies. Just whiskey, straight up. Best we have."

This makes Rick laugh, puffs of white in the air.

Billy turns and nods. "And we don't neglect the reindeer, either," he says. "Mince pie and carrots. So you Yanks can thank us that they've still got some flight in them when they make their transatlantic flight."

Rick snorts.

Billy settles a bit, head tilted just slightly to the side, looking far off again. "And Christmas morning, it's a beautiful thing. We sing carols at church and the entire family comes over for dinner. Aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents. They're all there, and there's enough food to feed an entire village," he says. He smiles a little. "And there's singing and dancing and we give gifts and spend the hours in the best company you could ever possibly imagine."

Billy's voice tapers off, and he sighs a little. "It's been many years," he says.

Many years since he left home, Rick thinks. Many years since he got to celebrate this way at all.

Rick is suddenly sad, and he's thinking of something to say when Billy turns back to him with a smile. He pats Rick on the leg, nodding with purpose. "So, it's never wrong to have some holiday spirit," he says. "Especially when you have those you care about to share it with."

This touches Rick, warms him deep within, and he's fumbling for words when Casey shakes his head. "It's like a damn Hallmark movie," he grumbles. "And not even a very good one."

There's a silence. Then Michael asks, "You mean you've seen a good one?"

To that, Casey has no reply.

-o-

It's not much later – but it seems much later – when Michael sighs. "Fay was big into Christmas."

Billy groans a little; Casey rolls his eyes.

Michael persists, a little dogged and willfully ignorant of his teammate's reactions. "It was one thing we always got right."

"You mean, in the midst of everything else you got wrong," Casey clarifies.

"Oh, let the man have his memories," Billy chides. "We are freezing to death, after all."

"I thought we were going to be fine," Rick says.

Billy pats his leg. "Of course, of course."

Rick's going to protest, but Michael doesn't let him. Instead, he casts an annoyed look down the line and continues, "She was good at decorating, too. My idea of trimming a tree was throwing up a few paper ornaments but she always had it with perfect white lights and ribbons and bows."

Rick thinks about this, thinks about Fay's precision and Michael's hopeless failure to understand it.

"She always sent me away for it," he says. "Had me go out for the day so she could get it done. And when I'd get back, the entire house would be transformed unlike anything I'd ever seen. It was like a magazine only not so cold and impersonal. She wasn't doing it to be trendy, she did it because she wanted it to be perfect. Sometimes I think it was the only thing perfect when we were together."

Rick wonders about this, and always has. Wonders what they were like together, wonders about the times when they were happy. Wonders why it didn't work even though the reasons seem obvious.

Then Michael smiles. "She never let me do anything except the last part," he says. "She always had this angel, something we picked up on our honeymoon in Paris. It was the last thing she put on the tree and she waited until I got home and had me do. Then, every year, we'd sit down on the couch, turn off the lights in the house and just watch the tree. Just the two of us and for that moment, nothing else mattered. Just the two of us."

Rick pulls closer. The snow is still falling and his lower half is entirely numb but his heart is still pounding as his teammates talk.

"I loved Christmas back then," Michael says. His expression falls somewhat. "It's never been quite the same since she left."

He doesn't say, _since she divorced me_; he doesn't have to.

A moment passes and Casey adds a branch to the fire. It struggles to catch but manages to crackle to life, though its meager heat seeming less than before.

Billy nods. "Most things never are," he says.

"That's for the best," Casey adds. But he has to amend it, with a slight tone of sympathy. "Most of the time."

-o-

The minutes are longer, each drawn out by the paralyzing cold. Rick's chattering now, shivering so hard that the sound reverberates in his head. His teammates are all suffering the same, but they don't seem to show it as much. And Billy shakes his head, sending wet snow flying as the time slips by.

Rick finds himself drifting from time to time, eyes shutting until he's rattled awake by his own violent trembling.

"We need a story," Billy announces. His voice sounds more strained than normal, even though Rick knows he's trying to hide that.

"I've done my sharing for the night," Michael says.

"As have I," Billy says. He turns, bowing forward to look across Rick toward Casey. "I do believe it's your turn."

Casey scowls. "What about Rick? He's the one who loves this stupid holiday."

"Yes, and he's done plenty of sharing over the last few weeks," Billy says. "We owe him this much for dragging him out of the country when he should be with his family."

Casey looks unconvinced.

"Besides," Michael says. "We need to keep talking because if we fall asleep, then that's it."

Casey still looks unconvinced.

Rick looks at him, blinking once and twice.

Casey's frown deepens. "Fine," he says with a sigh. "But let it be known that I am not sharing out of some attempt of emotional manipulation. This is entirely practical for our long term survival."

Billy nods quite seriously, but Michael chuckles. "Whatever you say," Michael says.

This leaves Casey marginally mollified and he shifts slightly, looking out into the night. "As a child, my mother used to tell me Santa would come," he begins. "We'd set out cookies and milk, just as instructed."

Rick eases in closer, waiting for the memory.

"She was liar," he says bluntly, his frank tone undercutting what Rick had thought was a happy memory. "And a compulsive eater. I still suspect that her weight problem was only intensified by frivolous Christmas traditions."

"I thought this was a time for _happy _memories," Rick says. He would fling his arm out to gesture to the snow-laden scene around the, but just the thought takes too much work. "Our best Christmases, since this one is looking to be the worst!"

He's being a bit melodramatic about this, and he knows it, but at this point, he doesn't care. He's cold – so very, very cold – and he's waiting on a miracle that would be impressive even in the movies.

Casey collects a breath and looks at Rick with annoyance. "I was getting there," he says. "I just thought you might want some background to know how meaningful the next story I'm going to share is."

This seems reasonable and Rick's posture eases as he slumps back against the snow embankment behind him.

"Anyway," Casey says with one more careful glare at Rick. "Fifteen years ago, I was on a mission in the Middle East. I had gotten waylaid, completely thrown off course and ended up in the desert in Jordan."

Rick tries to furrow his brow. He's not sure how effective it is since his forehead feels stiff, like trying to fold frozen leather.

"I had been mostly without food for two weeks and had been surviving on insects and small lizards," Casey continues.

"That sounds horrible," Rick says.

Casey shrugs, nonplussed. "I found it rather refreshing."

On the other side of Rick, Michael smirks. "You would."

"You do have a distinctive palate for such things," Billy adds.

"My taste buds are geared exclusively for survival," Casey says. "But that's not the point. The point is that I was a week overdue, which left me there for Christmas."

None of them say anything to that. The fire burns softer now and Casey pokes at it to turn the embers away from the snow.

"Normally it wouldn't have mattered to me," Casey says. "But out there, in the desert, I looked up and the night was perfectly clear. And the sky in the desert is vast; you can see everything, all of it."

Rick's been to the desert at night, so he can imagine. He wants to imagine the warmth of the desert in the sun, too.

"As I was camping out, trying to conserve my strength for a final trek back to civilization, I couldn't help it. I was awed. The stars seemed to shine so brightly and in the direction of Israel, I swear, one of the stars was brightest of all. And I thought about what it must have been like, all those years ago. Those shepherds in the fields, tending their flocks. They looked at those same stars, saw these same expanses. And somewhere, in some pathetic little stable, the most persistent figure in our culture was born."

It's surprising, and Rick doesn't know what to say.

"That's beautiful," Billy says for him. "And I dare say, we'd all do better to remember what this season is really about."

"Doubtful," Casey grunts, pursing his lips. "I figured out later that my sentimentality was caused by parasite I'd picked up in Lebanon a few days earlier. Doctors commented that they thought it was remarkable that I was walking under my own power and talking coherently."

Again, Rick can't help himself: he laughs.

Casey frowns at him. "Something funny?"

Rick nods his head. "Just you," he says. "Having the most spectacular Christmas miracle of all."

And no one can actually disagree.

-o-

They've run out of stories.

If not, they've run out of the energy to tell them.

The fire is weak now and it's all Casey can do to keep the damp wood burning. Rick's arms are wrapped so tight around his torso that he can't feel them anymore, and all the members of the team are pressed together even closer than before. Still, even with the proximity, it's dangerously cold. The pain receptors in his face have stopped burning and his jaw is too stiff to chatter anymore. Next to him, his teammates are still shivering but Rick can barely feel it through his frozen skin.

The stories were good, the memories seemed to matter. But Rick realizes now that they're not stories of hope; they're stories of goodbye.

"We've had good Christmases," he says after a while. It's hard enough to keep a coherent string of thoughts, but this seems important. "And _this _is the last one we'll have."

"Rubbish," Billy says.

"Your pessimism will get you nowhere," Casey agrees.

"We've only got two hours until help comes," Michael says.

Rick shakes his head. He's too cold for such weak hopes. "No," he says. "And it's okay. I mean, dying. I knew it could be like this when I took the job."

He feels his teammates start to protest.

Determined, Rick shakes his head numbly again. "I just…," he says, trying to find the words in his muddled brain. "I just wanted to end it with a better Christmas than this."

His voice cracks precariously and he would probably be crying were his tear ducts not frozen. He's too cold to care about this display of emotion; too cold to keep himself from it anyhow.

The moment hangs uncertainly, a truth between the lies that no one knows quite how to deny.

So they don't.

Instead, Billy sucks in a breath with obvious effort. "We may or may not perish out here," he concedes. "But this is hardly your worst Christmas."

Rick grunts, his best impression of a laugh right now. "We're stranded and freezing to death," he reminds the Scot.

Billy nods. "This is true," he agrees. "But, look around you, lad. Have you ever seen such a brilliant example of a white Christmas?"

Rick looks, sees the snow falling, big fat flakes padding softly to the ground.

"And we don't have some cheap, flimsy plastic excuse for a tree," Billy continues. "We've got honest to God pine trees in their pure coniferous glory. And not just one – but countless, as far as the eye can see."

This is true, and they look picturesque, the boughs heavy with fresh snow.

"And come on," Billy says, letting his head fall back. "We've got the best damn light show you could ever ask for."

Rick turns his eyes up, and his teammates do the same. They sit there, huddled together, looking up, breathing in the stillness.

"And we're not alone," Billy continues. "I can't think of three finer men to spend the holiday with."

Rick sighs, and the solidarity suddenly matters. The place isn't important, but the day is. The people are.

And that's not enough to save them, but maybe it's enough to make this Christmas worthwhile.

-o-

The snow picks up. It's covering them now and none of them have much strength to brush it off. Casey's the only one that moves, methodically stoking the meager flame.

As the snow picks up, the conversation dwindles.

As the talking fades, so do their shivers.

Rick knows this is bad, knows this means hypothermia is advanced now. Knows it's just a matter of time before they succumb one by one.

"Help's coming," Michael murmurs out of nowhere.

"Soon," Casey agrees.

Rick swallows with difficulty. "Soon enough?"

They all pause, seeming to wait for Billy to chime in. When he doesn't, Rick turns his head slightly to look at the Scot. The other operative is in the same position as before, head slumped back, face turned toward the sky. But his eyes are closed, cheeks almost blue in the moonlight.

"Billy?" Rick asks, and his heart skips a beat, a fresh surge of adrenaline warming through him enough to nudge the man. "Billy?"

Billy doesn't stir, small puffs of air still escaping his parted lips in the night.

"It's okay," Michael says. "Help's coming."

"Soon," Casey agrees again.

This time, Rick turns his head toward the sky and feels like choking. "Soon enough?"

And no one answers.

-o-

It's hard to breathe now. Each inhale is a struggle and his lungs protest when he blows his breath back out.

Rick's eyes blink sometimes, and each time, it's harder to open them back up.

"To think," Rick manages to say. "When I was younger, I could never fall asleep on Christmas."

"Sentimentality at its worst," Casey returns. He's not poking the fire anymore; they're out of wood anyway. The final embers are bright but fading.

"I bet Michael understands," Rick says.

There's no voice of disagreement; there's no voice at all.

Rick's head won't move now, can't even turn to look. He doesn't need to. He knows Michael's fallen asleep.

"I bet he does," Rick says again, because somehow it matters.

-o-

The fire goes out.

"Body heat is the best defense anyway," Casey says.

And then Casey goes out, too.

-o-

One minute, Rick is looking up at the Canadian sky. He's staring at the stars, feeling himself freeze down to his core.

He thinks he's in the open, thinks that the sky is vast. But when he looks closer, he sees that he's wrong.

The sky is limited, the horizons defined. The snow that falls is the same that always falls and it's just because someone has picked up his world and shaken it.

These moments are chaotic but when the snow settles, it'll go back to normal.

Normal.

Rick will wake up back in Virginia. He'll open gifts on Christmas morning and the sun will rise as someone builds a fire that warms the entire universe.

In this, the world is not so empty. It's not so cold. This isn't the Christmas Rick thought he wanted, but it's the one he has, and maybe that's okay in the end.

-o-

Rick doesn't wake up in Virginia. He wakes up in a hospital in Yellowknife and there is a blur of doctors and nurses coming and going. His body still feels numb. Somewhere, a monitor wails and someone shakes his snow globe again.

Rick's not sure which way is up and which way is down. The white is moving quickly – too quickly – and Rick closes his eyes again.

-o-

The next time Rick opens his eyes, he doesn't know for sure where he is. He's not cold anymore, though. He's hot. He's on fire and his throat hurts.

Someone reaches out, touches his arm.

Startled, Rick turns and sees Adele. She looks different, her eyes red and her face un-made up. "You're okay, Rick," she says, and she says it like a promise. "You're going to be okay."

Rick blinks and tries to talk. He can't, chokes instead as he tries to look around, tries to find his team.

He's not sure why, but they should be here. They need to be here.

Adele tightens her grip. "They're alive," she says, because she seems to know what he's thinking. "You're all worse for wear, but you're all going to be fine."

And Rick's had his doubts, but not about this. Because he didn't get much for Christmas, but if he got this much, then that's all he wants.

-o-

It only took five hours for Rick to nearly succumb to hypothermia. It takes nearly a week before he's awake to know the details.

The chopper arrived five and a half hours after the emergency beacon was deployed. When it finally found them, they were all unconscious with severely low body temperatures. They'd been airlifted back to the nearest hospital where each of them had been treated for severe hypothermia.

Billy's heart had stopped upon arrival but with the cold, no damage had been incurred. Still, he's been the slowest to wake up, having been weaned off a ventilator after a few days. Even awake, he's been struggling with subsequent pneumonia, but he's already making jokes.

Michael fared better, though he's still weak with pneumonia, too. He hacks and can't sit upright, but that doesn't stop him from trying, insisting on going over mission reports from his hospital bed.

Casey, as perhaps expected, has the least recovery to make, despite his broken arm. He says that he has trained his body to bounce back quicker; the doctors say that his position near the fire probably help spare him from the worst of it.

And Rick's somewhere in between them, which is how it always seems to go. His fever raged but he's beating it now. Adele came up a few days after the incident under the guise of official business – protecting the intel, she'd said – but it was clear she'd just wanted to be by Rick's side.

For that, Rick's not going to complain. She's orchestrated his cover story with his family, something about a grounded flight and an extended business meeting.

It doesn't matter. Christmas is over, and Rick knows he missed the best of his family's festivities. And he regrets that, but as he recovers with his team, he can't regret it too much. Because they'll be going home together. It's not quite over the river and through the woods and it's certainly not to Grandma's house, but the sentiment is still right as far as Rick's concerned.

-o-

It's well past the New Year when they finally get back to work. They're not quite cleared for field duty, but getting back to desk work is a step in the right direction.

As they return to normal, Rick pauses one night to pack up his Christmas things. He handles his snow globe with care, looking at the small figures inside.

On a whim, he winds it, gives it a shake and sets it on his desk, watching as the snow falls. The melody plays, and Rick hears the words.  
><em><br>Have yourself a merry little Christmas,  
>Let your heart be light<br>Next year all our troubles will be out of sight  
><em>  
>It makes Rick smile, a little bittersweet. Next year, he tells himself as he picks the globe up to take home. Next year.<p>

-o-

He's juggling his keys in one hand and the snow globe in the other as he opens the door to his apartment. He's so focused on not dropping anything that he doesn't see the decorations until he's already inside.

And then, he stops. He stares.

The entire place is done up. Rick had put up a small tree and a string of lights, but it'd been a marginal effort.

Now, his small tree has been replaced by a four foot one. It's fully trimmed with blinking lights and a fresh arrangement of old fashioned ornaments. The angel on the top looks suspiciously like the one Michael talked about.

And it doesn't stop there. The table is covered with snow globes. They're the cheap kind, probably bought at post-Christmas sales, but they still make quite a statement, especially with the animatronic Santa standing next to the table.

There are lights on his windows and a Christmas CD is playing.

Then, he sees his team.

Billy is actually cutting paper snowflakes and Michael is throwing a strand of garland across his coffee table. Casey is nursing what looks like a glass of eggnog while chewing on a cookie.

"What are you doing?" Rick asks, because he can't think of anything better to say.

"What does it look like?" Casey asks in accusation.

"Bugger," Billy says, putting down his scissors. "Did someone remember to take the ginger snaps out of the oven?"

"I smelled them burning three minutes ago," Casey reports.

"And you didn't say anything?" Billy asks, getting to his feet and limping to the stove.

Casey smirks. "I was seeing how long it would take you to notice."

Billy opens the oven and curses, rummaging for a potholder as he takes them out.

Rick shakes his head. "What are you doing?" he asks again.

"Burning our snacks mostly," Billy laments.

Michael comes around, smiling. "We know you didn't get the Christmas you wanted," he says. "And we can't go back and let you have the perfect Christmas with your family."

Billy comes out. "But we can try to give you one worth remembering."

"And one that doesn't involve a near death experience," Casey agrees.

Standing there, Rick looks around again. Then, he laughs. "You did this for me?"

"Well we certainly didn't do it for ourselves," Casey grouses. He sidles closer, holding out a fresh cup of eggnog for him.

Rick puts his keys down and takes it.

"Or Billy's cooking skills," Michael adds, snagging a drink of his own from the table.

"Oh and like your snickerdoodles turned out so much better," Billy snaps. He breathes and straightens. "Not that it matters. I find it's not the food that counts; it's the people you're with."

Casey lifts his glass. "I think I can drink to that."  
>Billy swipes the last cup and clinks it with Casey's. "Here, here," he says. "To Christmas!"<p>

"To surviving," Casey rejoins.

"To team work," Michael says.

"To friends," Rick concludes.

They hold like that, glasses together, united, and then drink.

Rick swallows, promptly coughing. "How much alcohol did you put in these?"

Casey shrugs. "Enough to make the premise of celebrating an overly commercialized holiday acceptable."

Billy makes a face, putting his glass aside. "That's a new interpretation of holiday cheer."

"A few more glasses and we'll all be extra cheerful," Michael suggests.

Rick laughs and takes another drink. It's not the Christmas he wanted, but that doesn't mean that it's not the best one yet.

-o-

The guys stay late. When they leave, Billy is more than a little tipsy and Casey is loose enough to actually start singing carols of his own accord. Michael rolls his eyes and escorts them out, leaving Rick to himself.

When they're gone, he sits on the couch and looks around. Looks at the decorations, looks at the remnants of the food. There's still a pile of wrapping paper from the gifts they'd shared. Rick's got a new book on martial arts to read and twenty dollars to Amazon to spend. He's not so sure what to do with the kilt Billy gave him, but he hopes that it's the thought that counts. And Adele might like it, or so Billy had implied with a leer and a slightly-too-hard elbow to Rick's ribs.

The gifts are impressive – and they'd been thorough enthralled with his selections, too – but that's not what impresses Rick most. It's not the decorations or the food.

It's his teammates. His friends.

He falls asleep like that, drifting in the early day. And as he sleeps, he dreams.

In this, he sees his snow globe once again. His world is isolated in a perfect ball of glass. This is more fragile than he ever imagined, but it's also more full than he ever expected.

And he's not alone.

No, because there are Billy and Casey, skating on the ice and arguing. Michael is meticulously constructing a snowman and Rick is decorating the tree. The snow is falling and settling about them and Rick has to smile

Somehow, they all fit together here, joined and united in this perfect world. It's not the one Rick might have chosen for himself, but it's one they've built together, and Rick can think of no greater gift.


End file.
